Surfing The Afterworld By Paul Hilding

Surfing The Afterworld By Paul Hilding

The line was long, but moving steadily, like an airport security maze on a busy day. The four of them had just arrived, and George was surprised to see that the Catholics seemed to have gotten it mostly right. Pearl encrusted wrought iron gates projected from an enormous tower of fluffy white clouds. A little kitschy he thought, but the familiarity was somehow reassuring.

Off to one side, a small but well-rehearsed choir sang a mix of Christian pop and traditional hymns. A trio of trumpet-toting cherubs flew low over the crowd from time to time, blasting baroque fanfares. Far ahead, and just to the right of the gates, a frazzled looking old man with a long white beard and rumpled robe was sitting at a small desk. He seemed to be checking names against a list, leaning in close to speak to the guests above the din. A faint anti-septic smell, like from a hospital, lingered in the air.

George was also surprised that all of his surfer buddies had made it. Even Nate the lawyer. For some reason, he had always imagined the bar would be pretty high. Of course, Roberto and Steve had probably been no-brainers. By all accounts, Steve, a CPA, had been a model father and husband. He had even gone to church on occasion. Roberto, a psychologist, was the Mother Teresa of the group. He had run a small non-profit for troubled teens. He may have even been Catholic. Or Jewish. George wasn’t sure.

Nate was a bit sketchier. He’d been a heavy drinker and notorious womanizer. There’d also been that unpleasantness a few years back when he’d sued his son’s born-again football coach for making everyone pray before the games. Admittedly, the coach had been a sanctimonious jackass but, with 20/20 hindsight, perhaps the lawsuit was not the smartest move for Nate’s immortal soul, not to mention his son’s football career.

George pulled a stray cherub feather from his hair and had just started to consider the uncomfortable subject of his own backstory when Nate broke the glum silence: “My bad, I guess.”

No shit, George thought.

Roberto managed a smile: “Nah. It’s on all of us. We were right behind you, yakking away, not paying attention.”

George thought back. It seemed like only minutes ago that they had landed in Sydney on the red-eye from San Diego, fired up about their long-planned Australia surf trip. They had just exited the terminal and were rushing to catch a taxi. But they had forgotten about the opposite direction of traffic in Australia. Nate darted into the street first, followed by the other two, with George a few steps behind. None of them had thought to look to the right.

The driver of the city bus had had no time to stop. But he must have seen the group of three first because he swerved towards George. George’s last memories were of the enormous bus, tires squealing, skidding sideways towards all of them, a brief glimpse of his shattered Ellington flying through the air, a momentary regret at the loss of his favorite longboard, and then . . .

And then, somehow, he was here.

He looked his friends over and didn’t see any signs of trauma. In fact, they looked great. They were all in their 50s, well-tanned and fit from years of surfing. They were wearing board shorts, flip flops and colorful Hawaiian shirts. They could not have looked more out of place in this shuffling line of mostly elderly people. Many were in hospital robes and wheelchairs.

And, he noticed with a start, something else made them stand out from the crowd. His three friends were still carrying their surfboards. “How the hell . . . I mean, how the heck did your boards not get smashed by that bus?”

“No idea,” said Roberto, a puzzled look on his face. He unzipped his travel bag to take a look. His almost new cherry red Evo did not have a scratch on it.

“Yeah, it was just under my arm when we got here, like the accident never happened,” said Steve. His Bradley was a wave-catching machine and, next to his wife and kids, the love of his life.

“Don’t worry, George. They gotta have a surf shop inside,” Nate said, his arm wrapped tightly around his Slater. “I mean, if they even have anywhere that you can surf up here.” He paused, then added with a nervous laugh, “Wherever the hell ‘here’ is.”

George felt a sick pang of dread, the first since the accident. Why was he the only one who had lost his board? He had always loved to surf, but after his divorce last year, surfing with his three buddies had been the emotional salve that had gotten him through some very dark days. They would paddle out before work nearly every morning and would spend an hour or so chasing waves.

 Actually, most days he would continue to surf for a while even after they left. A long while. In fact, if he was being honest, he hadn’t really gone to work much lately. So, no need to hurry out of the water . . .

They had often joked about their strange obsession. On big days, it could take half an hour just to paddle out, pulling with all their strength, absorbing the punishment as one monster wave after another broke on top of them and dragged them back towards shore. Then, once they were in the lineup, they might spend another ten or twenty minutes just sitting on their boards, scanning the horizon for a good set. Even when they had picked a wave, more often than not they would screw up the entry, or some fast-paddling kid would get there first, and they would have to paddle back out to the lineup and try again. If they did make the drop, a decent ride lasted maybe ten or fifteen seconds. So, two or three rides in an hour, less than a minute actually carving turns, was a good day.

There was more to it, of course. Much more. The sheer beauty of “dawn patrol,” as they called it, paddling out as the first streaks of yellow and orange lit up the early morning clouds. The laughing and joking and teasing. The insane commitment of will to paddle up and over the lip of a speeding double-overhead wave. The thrill of dropping down its face, carving a turn, lingering in the barrel, feeling the blast of wind and spray and adrenalin as the wave collapsed.

On a good wave, George would lightly drag his inside hand across the glassy smooth face, catching a momentary glimpse of sunlight through the blue-green translucence of the barrel. He would feel something too, a pulse of energy at his fingertips that connected him with the primal force of the wave. More than anything, it was that connection, the sheer joy of those moments, that kept him in the water long after his friends headed off to work.

Those moments had become even more important during the divorce and custody battle. His biggest regret was the impact on the kids. They had blamed him.

And they were right.

Nothing seedy, George thought. It wasn’t like Nate’s story. George and his wife, Sarah, had simply drifted apart. No common interests. Nothing to talk about. They had stopped dining out years ago. The long awkward silences had been excruciating. There was no laughter, no passion, no emotional connection at all.

Early on, Sarah had tried to talk him into counseling. But for reasons he could not have explained, he refused. He had never made a serious effort to work through their marital issues.

As always, he had found solace in his surfing. And, more recently, in drinking a bit more than he should have, mostly when watching football and baseball games. But, increasingly, there had been bouts of drinking at a nearby bar, and then a DUI arrest. His second. No one got hurt, but it had been embarrassing and very expensive.

Sarah’s solution was to spend more and more time with her elderly mother. And then, with no discussion or warning, she and the boys had moved into her mother’s seaside house. There had been a short note on the counter when he returned from his morning surf session: “I hired a lawyer and filed for divorce. I hope you find happiness.”

“So what do you think it’s like inside?” Nate said, interrupting George’s reverie. “I mean, are we going to have to start wearing robes? Do we get wings? Are there babes?”

The line had stopped momentarily, and Roberto was leaning on his board, looking pensive. “I guess I’d always thought that, if heaven existed, it was just a place where you would be re-united with the people you love. I mean, what else could it be?”

Nate laughed nervously. “Yeah, I thought of that. But, I mean, I could barely handle a weekend with my parents when they used to fly in from Philly. Three days, tops. But 24/7 with them? For eternity? Not my idea of heaven. Not even close.” He frowned, and then after a short pause he added: “Same goes for the kids, I guess.”

The line started up again and Steve glanced ahead. “Should find out pretty soon. The old man just finished with a big group that looks like they are traveling together. Maybe tourists from a plane crash?”

George looked at the group. They were Asian, perhaps from China, judging from the way they flocked around a small red flag their leader held aloft as he nodded to the old man and walked through the entrance gate. They were casually dressed and there were a lot of cameras and high end designer tote bags.

A few other individuals in the line also stood out from the parade of elderly in hospital gowns. Just behind the tourists, a thin man with unkempt grey hair was dancing and twirling, waving his hands over his heads as if conducting the choir. He looked a bit like Keith Richards and seemed to be a favorite of the cherubs who kept darting low over his head. Some of the tourists started pointing at him and taking his picture.

In the next aisle over, George saw someone else who looked familiar. The stocky, confused-looking man was a well-known televangelist, and he was still holding an open Bible in both hands, as if he had just been sharing the good word. But his oily pompadour was in disarray, and without his trademark beatific smile George almost did not recognize him.

As George looked farther afield, he saw that there were numerous other lines of people going through other portals. He could just make out a sign over one fast-moving line that said “Re-Entry Gate (Buddhists Only).” The people in a line for “Jains, Baha’i and other Pacifists” were also moving quickly, being waved through with only a perfunctory nod by an impatient looking man in a white dhoti and turban. There was no line at all in front of another portal for “Non-Judgmental Vegans.”

As they approached their own gate, George had a final panicked thought about his shattered surfboard. For him, the Ellington had been more than just a piece of shaped fiberglass. When out of the water, he had treated it like a precious work of art, hanging it from racks on his living room wall above the TV, the only decoration in his dingy, post-divorce apartment. Often, after a few drinks, he would find himself staring at the board, rather than the TV, admiring its graceful lines, the pastel blue stripes, the swirls of sand-laden surf wax. Sometimes it felt like he could literally re-live the best rides of the day just by looking at it.

The old man looked up as they approached. The long thin list of names was gathered in a jumbled pile in the middle of his desk and then snaked over to the edge where an even bigger pile lay on the ground next to his chair. The only other object on the desk was a small plaque that read “My Father’s house has many rooms. John 14:2-3.”

“Ah, yes. From California, right? So sorry about that bus.” He looked tired and harried, but George thought he saw genuine empathy in his pale blue eyes. “You know, there’s a lot of people who wouldn’t be here if those gosh darn Brits hadn’t insisted on left side driving in the Commonwealth countries.”

“Forgive my French,” he added distractedly, sorting through the tangled pile of paper. “It’s just that, between their ass-backwards driving rules and the difficulty of converting imperial units to metric, the Brits are responsible for a hell of a lot of accidents. A hell of a lot.”

George stood silently, exchanging nervous looks with his friends. Finally, the old man paused and tapped his finger on the list. “Ah . . . here you are. And . . . yes . . . excellent, it’s all ready for you. Door 437G. Go right on through the gate and it’s down the corridor on your right.”

 “Where might I get a surf—” George started to ask. But just then, the cherubs came in low, blasting their horns, making further conversation impossible. The old man simply shrugged his shoulders with a weak smile and pointed to the gate.

The inside hallway reminded him, once again, of a busy airport. It was well lit with fluorescent overhead lights. People of all nationalities and races were scurrying back and forth. Just ahead of them he saw the tourists again, tightly clustered around the man with the red flag. They had stopped in front of a doorway and were talking excitedly. A few had already walked inside, cameras at the ready.

“Hey guys. Hang on a second, I want to take a quick peek.” George said. The four of them stopped in front of the doorway and looked inside. It appeared to be the entrance to an enormous museum, with photographs displayed on walls and in endless rows of cabinets that seemed to stretch to the horizon. As they watched, more of the group went in. They started taking pictures of the pictures.

None of the foursome said a word. Finally, after a long pause, Nate sputtered and started laughing, softly at first but then louder and louder. Eventually, he doubled over, howling and crying and nearly falling to the ground. A few of the tourists turned around and stared at him. One even raised his camera to take a picture, causing Nate to convulse in more fits of laughter.

“What?” George demanded, worried that Nate was making a scene.

“I get it,” Nate replied, still laughing, tears in his eyes.

“What? What do you get?”

“It’s hilarious. Like, see the guy with the selfie stick taking a picture of himself in front of his friends who are taking pictures of the pictures? It’s cosmic irony.”

Or just a sick joke, George thought. He did not get the humor, although he noticed that Roberto and Steve were smiling. “Come on, let’s move on,” he said.

Not far ahead, the group came upon what looked like a Duty Free shop, with the usual fare: alcohol, jewelry, expensive watches. No surfboards, of course.

“Whoa,” said Nate reaching for a bottle of Glenfiddich. “Let’s slow down a little.”

“Jackpot!” said Steve as he and Roberto joined Nate looking over the scotch.

George hesitated, pretending not to hear his friends. He felt the tug of the alcohol, the familiar impulse to deaden his emotions. But the memory of the DUI was still very raw. He shuddered as he recalled the late night call to Sarah from county jail. It had been one of the last times he’d talked to her.

So he wandered down a side aisle that had a large selection of watches. He started to try on a Rolex but noticed it was not running. On closer examination, he saw that none of the watches were working.

Nate grabbed three more bottles. He looked around and then dropped them discreetly into the bag with his surfboard. “OK. One for each of us. I think we’re good.”

As they left, they saw the minister and the Keith Richards lookalike walking side by side a short distance ahead of them, both carrying heavy loads of alcohol. The minister seemed to have discarded the Good Book in order to carry more bottles.

“Interesting choice.” Nate said. “I wonder what he and Keith are doing together.”

“More cosmic irony?” Roberto said.

They watched as the televangelist, arms full, elbowed open the next side door, with Keith Richards right behind him. Through the entry, George could see an enormous cheering crowd. As the door slowly closed, he heard a huge cheer and, moments later, the unmistakable opening drum cadence of Sympathy for the Devil. George felt a chill as a few stray lyrics drifted into the hallway: “. . . what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game . . .”

“Hey,” Roberto said slowly. “You think that really was Keith Richards, legit?”

Nate smiled. “Dunno, but definitely looks like a more promising place to party than the photo museum.”

A few minutes later they were standing in front of 437G. George turned the knob and the door opened easily. He almost fell as he walked through, missing the first step down to a brilliant white sand beach dotted with palm trees but otherwise deserted. It was a warm, sunny day.

Beyond the beach was a tropical sea, the same blue-green color as those sunlit waves in San Diego. Except these waves were perfect. Gorgeous. They were big but well-shaped, slowed and lifted to a towering height by a brisk offshore breeze that blew white spray off their crests. They were breaking on a shallow reef and angling right, perfect for Roberto, Steve and George.

For Nate, who surfed goofy-footed, the big waves would be challenging. He’d have to surf backside, dropping in blind. Not ideal, but he could probably handle it. George wondered if there would have been a left break for Nate if he hadn’t done all that womanizing.

The four of them stood silently for a long time, watching the endless procession of perfect waves. Finally, above the roar of the surf, Roberto said. “OK, looks like we’re one surfboard short. So we take turns when we get tired.”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “There’s plenty of waves for everyone.”

Roberto turned and looked at George. “Hey. Why don’t you take the first shift on my Evo.”

“No way,” George protested, as convincingly as he could manage. “It’s your board. Get out there and carve it up.” He pointed to a nearby palm tree. “I’ll pull up a piece of shade and take my turn when one of you is ready for a break.”

“Alright, I never last much more than an hour anyhow,” said Roberto.

Nate handed the bottles of scotch to George and winked. “Save some for us,” he said with a big grin. Then he, Roberto and Steve pulled their boards out of their travel bags, strapped on their leashes and walked down the beach, turning and waving as they reached the water. Soon they were paddling out in a rip current that quickly pulled them far offshore, beyond the breaking waves.

George watched as all of them, even Nate, caught one perfect ride after another. Sometimes, above the rumble of the surf, he could just make out their voices, hooting and laughing.

With nothing else to do, George opened one of the bottles, a Laphroaig single malt. A few sips would calm his nerves and help pass the time until it was his turn, he reasoned. He took a shallow sip. The strong peaty flavor felt warm and comforting. He sat down in the shade of the tree, took a few more sips and then laid back for a nap.

Sleep would not come. George kept seeing the bus barreling towards him, his surfboard exploding, and . . . and then, his friends looking down at him lying on the ground.

But that was impossible. They had been hit as well, and they were here with him now.

After a while, he gave up on the nap and sat up, leaning against the tree. He had a few more sips of the Laphroaig. And then a couple more. And then, somehow, the bottle was almost empty.

He searched for his friends, squinting in the dazzling sunlight. Finally, he saw them, almost at the horizon now, shimmering like mirages in the midday heat. But he could no longer hear their laughter.

As George tilted the bottle back to get the final few drops, he glanced at the sun. Hours must have passed since he’d first sat down, but it was still high overhead. And he was still in the tree’s shade. Its shadow had not moved.

 With a growing feeling of unease, George placed a small stick in the powdery white sand. He carefully measured its shadow and then, after starting on a second bottle, checked back repeatedly. The length never changed. All the while, the three mirages kept dropping in on one perfect wave after another.

For George, waiting for his turn to surf, it felt like eternity.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Paul Hilding 2026

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